


Wolf

by INMH



Series: hc_bingo fanfiction fills 2017 [16]
Category: The Order: 1886
Genre: Angst, Drama, Family, Gen, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-22
Updated: 2017-07-22
Packaged: 2018-12-05 09:07:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 681
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11574897
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/INMH/pseuds/INMH
Summary: By chance, the Chancellor witnesses Alastair’s transformation.





	Wolf

It’s horrendous.  
  
Augustus watches, hidden, as Alastair’s back and limbs contort. His bones snap and crack agonizingly as they grow, elongate, stretch and thicken to become powerful and dangerous. His nails morph into claws.  
  
Alastair’s face blackens, and long teeth grow out from his mouth, becoming sharp and menacing, the sort Augustus has seen rip the flesh from the bones of innocent men, women and children. Coarse gray hair sprouts from his flesh, grows out into a sparse coating; Alastair’s clothing, not his Knight uniform but looser items seemingly brought for the occasion, are destroyed as he transforms.  
  
His son is becoming a monster.  
  
Augustus has known, from the day he picked the small, confused child up and carried him away from the slaughter of his family that this day would come. He does not know of an Elder lycan with children who have not inherited the condition, and knew that one day Alastair would come to understand for himself what he is; and Augustus’s only regret is that he’s unsure when exactly that day came, because Alastair looks more comfortable with the transition than one who is experiencing it for the first time should be.  
  
He stays tucked away behind the chimney on the rooftop; thankfully, Whitechapel has enough of its own cornucopia of pervasive smells that Alastair should not be able to detect him from this distance. They have never spoken of Alastair’s true parentage, though he, as does Isabeau, knows he is adopted and not Augustus’s blood-son- as such, Alastair does not know that Augustus knows he’s a lycan.  
  
It’s not something the Chancellor likes to dwell on.  
  
In the light of day, for hundreds of years, Alastair has been a fine son, finer than any man could hope or ask for. Alastair had risen to every challenge set for him, risen through the ranks of the Order on his own merit; he is strong, intelligent, skilled in combat, level-headed, good-hearted, and deeply respected by his peers. Any hesitations, any worries Augustus had had when he took Alastair in as a child, wondering if all might end terribly when the lad learned of his true parentage, had disappeared the day Alastair had been appointed by unanimous vote to the position of Knight Commander.  
  
Augustus had been so proud.  
  
He _is_ so proud.  
  
Watching his son make the painful transition into his lycan-state does not diminish his love, or his pride, but it _shakes_ something in Augustus- it horrifies him, sets him on edge so badly that in that moment that he wonders, if only in the back of his mind, if maybe he’s sabotaged himself. The sight of the fangs, the claws, the fur, the image of everything he has spent the last several centuries fighting and knowing that it is his son that he’s looking at, it makes him wonder why Alastair is transforming now, wonder what he’s up to, and if maybe it’s something less than reputable.  
  
 _No,_ Augustus thinks as he watches, heart-aching, as Alastair shakes himself- much like a real wolf or dog would- and trots off down the alleyway and out of sight. _No, he wouldn’t. He would never._  
  
Not his Alastair.  
  
Neither he nor Isabeau are his blood-children, but Augustus loves them both all the same, and would guard them with his life. He cannot bring himself to second-guess Alastair’s, _his_ Alastair’s, motives. The boy must simply be curious about his roots, about the people he’s never knew; Augustus is troubled that Alastair chooses to interact with them, but who knows? Perhaps Alastair’s performing some sort of infiltration, gathering information.  
  
That’s what he has to believe.  
  
That’s what he _needs_ to believe.  
  
 _Come home,_ Augustus thinks as he peels away from the shadow of the chimney, staring at the spot where he’d watched Alastair transform. _Come home, son_. He returns to the Order’s headquarters and counts the minutes until his son comes back.  
  
Alastair returns some time in the night, and greets his father warmly in the morning.  
  
Augustus returns the greeting, and tells himself not to worry.  
  
He does anyway.  
  
-End


End file.
